


Pretty, Naughty Words

by EmmG



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bad flirting on Solas' part, Dirty Elvhen, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Shameless Smut, or more like none, this is crack ok, well kinda tame smut but still
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 01:53:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6733198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmG/pseuds/EmmG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas can ignore Lavellan's lewd flirting only for so long.</p><p>For the kink meme  <a href="http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/16181.html?thread=62285109#t62285109">prompt</a>—blunt innuendos and flirting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty, Naughty Words

**Author's Note:**

> I have no words. I loved that prompt. It's kinda tame, but whatever, I loved writing it.
> 
> Omfg thank you FenXShiral for all this delicious, dirty elvhen. Such useful things to know ;)
> 
> As always, find me doing nothing on [tumblr.](http://emmg.tumblr.com/) Oh yeah, I'm probably gonna repost it there like the trash that I am.

In all honesty, he was not to blame.

One horse had collapsed; Vivienne would not share her steed; Dorian's delicate courser could barely support the Tevinter's weight along with the extravagant monstrosity he called a staff.

Which left him and his modest Folder to bear Lavellan's addition to their ranks.

The horse was neither happy nor unhappy.

Solas was a bit more conflicted.

Now Lavellan sat comfortably propped against his chest, head nearly tucked beneath his chin as he struggled to retain a clear view of the road, desperately searching for a spot unobstructed by wild pale hair and the occasionally squirming warm body.

"This is nice," she said.

Above her, he hummed. Maybe it even sounded like a snort. "You consider the death of your horse a happy circumstance?"

"Certainly not happy."

And that was all she gave him.

He was really, truly not to blame when she began absentmindedly stroking the back of his hand where it rested splayed over her—armored—stomach. He hadn't invited the touch and yet he basked in it, refusing to acknowledge that at this precise moment he thought of how her hair smelled of sweat and soap, how pliant and soft she was against him.

Such little, innocent touches for her while he could not recall the last time his hand was held, much less the feeling of nails raking up and down his back in pleasure.

"I think of your hands," Lavellan said. "Sometimes, I think about them too much. Well, your fingers truly. Are they only talented with a brush?"

"Oh," he said.  What an eloquent answer.

She was so utterly transparent in her advances. Innocent enough flirtations were often thrown around; all were welcome to a taste. And many did sink their teeth in, so she danced around them.

He'd grown used to watching her bite her lip at the Commander; waggle her eyebrows at Josephine; climb into Dorian's lap as both partook in their preferred activity of being loud in the library.

But the lewdness was always subdued in his company.

Not anymore, apparently.

"We shall reach Skyhold within the hour," he said. "You won't be forced to share a horse with me much longer, lethallan."

Her fingers found the spaces between his knuckles and slid in. "You're not holding me strongly enough," she complained. "I shall fall out of the saddle."

He pretended not to notice as she wriggled and squirmed against him, a true eel of too-hot flesh and narrow hips.

"You shan't."

"But I might," she countered. "I think you better dominate that indomitable focus of mine before it flees and I lose balance...preferably with your fingers."

Well, then.

*

All in all, he thought, her previous words had been very tame in comparison.

He'd smiled so widely when she came to him with an abused parchment and endearing frown. He'd been distraught for many days, saddened by the sad fate that had befallen Wisdom.

She was a distraction, if nothing else, and yet so much more.

"Our language is mostly forgotten by now," she said, leaning over his desk to display the chicken scratch she called penmanship, "but there are terms I've heard here and there that I've never quite understood. Would you mind translating?"

And then she added that throaty _Hahren_ which should have set off alarm bells. He should have guessed right then and there that her trap had been sprung.

She licked her fingers, using the moisture to pry the pages apart.

Ah. So there were several.

"This one is interesting," she announced, a pale eyebrow quirking up. "Quite long, too. Feel free to correct me if my pronunciation offends our grand ancestors and whatnot."

"Of course," he agreed.

"Isala'gara'seia'vallas," she said, wide, oh-so-virtuous eyes blinking rapidly at him.

Teeth worried a bottom lip as if stained with cherry, and Solas promptly choked on his next breath.

"Where—" he began, choked once more, coughed, "where did you hear that?"

Lavellan shrugged, shoulder lazily rolling about its socket. "Here and there. It's commonly used."

As it happened, the bold declaration _'I want to rub your cum into my skin'_ was most certainly not part of one's everyday vocabulary.

His chin found his fist. His eyes found the door. His legs, however, had decided to grow roots.

"So," she urged, one bare foot nudging his thigh, creeping up until sparks of fire seemed to leave her skin and burrow beneath his. "What does it mean?"

"It—it is very archaic Elvhen," he lied. "Translating would rob it of its true meaning."

"Of course," she said, smiling demurely, and now her clever foot traveled to his other thigh. Little toes rubbed circles into his skin.

The Dalish were physical, he told himself.

She kissed Dorian on the mouth despite his obvious preferences.

She allowed the Iron Bull to scrub her back with a polished stone during bathing when they all shared a river on long trips.

And none of it meant anything as she announced, "All right, I have a couple more. _Paladahl_."

Why yes, this one actually pertained to the matter at hand—or at least foot, for hers was not that far off from the straining cock trapped in his trousers.

And they just kept coming. She fired off one after another, never giving pause.

"Pala ma ara'br'av sule ir rosas'da'din, em avan ma mahnnar."

_Fuck my throat until you cum so much that I can taste you next year._

"What about this?"

"An old Elvhen poem about the changing of seasons."

Soon followed by, "Isalan hima sa i'na."

_I lust to become one with you._

"And this one?"

"You are cherished company."

"The ancient elves exuded poetry. There's this one too that makes me particularly curious. _Silal or ma tu ara'len'palan._ So?"

_Thinking of you makes me masturbate._

"The thought of you brings me joy."

At least the last one he managed to somewhat salvage—if not the entire meaning than at least the general concept.

Or not even that.

And now he could no longer stand the inquisitive foot. His hands—his poor trembling hands—captured it before the final assault and guided it to the safety of his knee. Perched as she was on his desk, there was no escaping physical contact.

And she smelled of lilac this time—and the loose shirt had slipped off her creamy shoulder—and it was getting very uncomfortable to remain still.

Solas shifted. His breath wheezed through his teeth.

Lavellan set aside the first page and licked her fingers again.

This time her tongue was perhaps a tad slower in its endeavor.

Or maybe he was just feverish.

"Shall we go on, hahren?" she inquired. "This is very informative. I'm glad our conversations aren't restricted to the matter of the Fade anymore."

"There is more?" he rasped, not recognizing the treacherous hoarseness that had crept into his tone.

"Of course," Lavellan said so very simply. Almost quietly. "The pursuit of knowledge is important and so on and so forth. Or at least that's what my Keeper said."

 _Very_ sweetly and in _very_ broken Elvhen she proceeded to ask— _vera em su tarasyl_ —take me to the sky.

Her eyes were wildfire, and he was running out of creative lies.

*

Well the third time, he had perhaps asked for it.

Ar lath ma. Ar lath ma. Ar lath ma.

Those words were the truest he'd ever spoken, not poisoned by intent or deception.

She echoed his steps, mirrored his stance. When he retreated, she followed. When he tilted his head, she cocked hers. She smiled and it made her look younger still, lips riding higher on one side and pearly teeth peeking out at him.

He didn't want to leave her quarters.

"You have very long fingers, vhenan," she said, the word new but gliding off her tongue with surprising ease. "Are you off to stain them with paint once more?"

"You are not subtle," he chuckled.

"Not with you," she agreed. "You tit."

He caressed her cheek and she stepped into him, crowding, pushing, laughing.

The kiss was all soft lips and measured breaths before it transformed into clashing teeth and little nips. He pulled back slowly, trailing soft kisses up her cheekbones, unable to wrench himself entirely from her just yet.

"You are precious," he murmured, coiling a stray lock of hair at her temple around his finger. "It is nearly time for dinner. We ought to—"

She let him walk all the way to the staircase. Allowed him to put his hand on the railing before saying, very conversationally, "Ema 'ma dhula i pala em."

_Pull my hair and fuck me._

She certainly needed no Elvhen lessons.

His control had always been a point of pride for him, but water could chip at the hardest of diamond if given enough time.

And she was a waterfall.

She laughed when he crushed her against his chest—and would you look at that, he'd all but crossed the room in three steps—and laughed still while being pushed down onto her bed.

One hand settled on her lower back, pressing, bruising, demanding, keeping her still even as the other made quick work of yanking off her trousers. Fingers caught the waistband of her smalls and those came along for the ride until she was bare from the waist down. Pale and small and perfect. He traced the curve of her spine, oddly fascinated by where it disappeared beneath her shirt. That, of course, prompted the decision that it, too, needed to be removed.

She gazed at him over her shoulder.

"Greedy?" she teased.

"Impatient." A pleasant new discovery—a scar, a little hollow, along her back into which his tongue dipped. "Eager." Juncture of neck and shoulder were treated to a bite. "Yes, perhaps somewhat greedy."

She arched back even as he caught her hips, flipping her over. She sat on her haunches, a perfect statue of flushed marble—what a lovely contradiction— and he undid the last buttons of her top. She raised her arms; he flung the piece of clothing away.

His hands slid down, over her throat, briefly tracing the curve of her clavicle, before palming her breasts.

"I must say," she said.

"Hmm?" he drawled, gaze captured by the soft flesh filling his hands. He shifted, pulled into her lap until she sat astride him and he could feel the scorching heat of her through his clothes.

"I must say," she repeated, punctuating each word with a languid grind against his thigh, "this took quite a bit of convincing."

"You have a very interesting way of convincing people, vhenan."

"It worked, didn't it?"

He couldn't argue that. Whatever arsenal he might have possessed once to fight her argument, disappeared when he dipped his hand between her thighs. Then, it didn't really matter. She could be right all day, all night, to the moon and back. He'd gladly lose each and every argument from now on.

One finger skimmed along the parting of her lips, not quite sliding in, while above him she gasped. The blush had spread to her chest by now and then even lower as his thumb found her clit, circling it almost lazily. When she grasped his shoulders for steadiness, he buried the teasing, free digit to the knuckle.

Her mouth shaped into a pleased 'oh', but he had no time to admire it as she brought it to his ear. She breathed, deep and loud, right into his ear and moved her hips. Slowly, gently, one of his arms wrapped around her waist for support as he matched her pace. Solas found himself unable to do much more than watch as she fucked herself on his fingers.

He renounced blinking in favor of admiring how tightly she gripped him.

The scent of arousal mixed with lilac—her soft, tangled hair tickling the sides of her face—her slick sticking to his fingers—and he couldn't quite breathe, much less think.

She gave one last languid roll of her hips before climbing off him and stretching at his side. He mourned the loss of her wet warmth, turning as well to nuzzle her neck, attempting to capture her mouth before being thwarted yet again.

"Kiss me," she said, smiling.

He did. Her mouth. Her cheeks. The hollow of her throat.

"Not there," she whispered.

And when he finally bowed between her legs, dry lips and wet fingers caressing the sensitive flesh there, he knew that he'd found the right spot at last.

He should have flirted back sooner.


End file.
